


Victory Braid

by smilebackwards



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Acceptance, Disapproving Family, Gen, Glóin's A+ Parenting, M/M, Meeting the Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilebackwards/pseuds/smilebackwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gimli brings home an elf with dwarven promise braids in his hair, Glóin is forced to come to the painful conclusion that his beloved son took one too many blows to the head during the many illustrious battles he’d fought in the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory Braid

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=10732560) on the hobbit kink meme.

When Gimli brings home an elf with dwarven promise braids in his hair, Glóin is forced to come to the painful conclusion that his beloved son took one too many blows to the head during the many illustrious battles he’d fought in the war. Gimli, bless him, has his mother’s temper and rants and raves at Glóin over his unkind welcome while the elf looks politely away.

After two days, Gimli makes a rather transparent bid for escape from under Glóin’s baffled glare by volunteering Legolas and himself for a training patrol Dwalin has organized for some of the newer guardsmen. Dwalin rolls his eyes when Glóin attaches himself to the party as well, but having seen the quality of Gimli’s recent decisions, Glóin thinks it would be irresponsible not to.

The young guards have a look of awed terror when they find that they’ll be supervised by not only Dwalin but Glóin and two of the Nine Walkers. Bilur—whom Glóin recalls as being some relation to Bombur, Bofur and Bifur—at least bears up well, asking Gimli question after question about the fortifications at Helm’s Deep and the white stone that is said to make up the chief city of Gondor as Erebor grows smaller behind them.

“Aye,” Gimli says reminiscently. “Not for nothing is Minas Tirith called the White City. Seven levels of bright, pale stone. Alas, much of it was damaged during the battle at Pelennor.”

“They need but send for dwarves,” Glóin harrumphs. “We’d soon--” 

Legolas suddenly halts dead in his tracks. He tilts his head sideways and makes a vaguely offensive _iglishmêk_ signal that Glóin remembers Kíli using whenever Fíli brought up the time he’d accidentally shot Thorin in the arse during his novice archer days. _Shut up._

“Wh--,” Glóin begins, affronted, but Gimli stops him, making the same sign twice over, quick and sharp, as vehement as _iglishmêk_ can be articulated.

The elf leaps into a towering beech overhead and scuttles upward through the branches with barely a sound. Gimli adopts a guarded stance at the base of the tree and signals _wait._

Glóin’s forbearance is wearing thin when a birdcall comes down: three notes, in the voice of a thrush. Gimli whistles back an acknowledgement. He turns to the dwarven party and makes the sign for _attention_ and then _enemy. Threescore. From the north._

The barest hint of movement in the north catches Glóin’s eye. He squints and as he watches, it resolves into a group of orc raiders. It rankles Glóin to see that the elf was right, but he is not the kind of dwarf to call diamond quartz simply out of prejudice for where it was mined.

The orcs look to be heading toward Dale and their current path will take them directly past the dwarves. The wind is not in the party’s favor, so Glóin doesn’t expect that they’ll have the benefit of complete surprise. However, the trees and scrub offer a certain amount of cover. With any luck, a swift dwarven sprint will herald a swift victory.

Glóin tightens his grip on his axe and Dwalin motions for the dwarven party to form up around him, Glóin on the far right while Gimli stays to the left, flanking the younger guardsmen between them. _Wait,_ Dwalin motions, holding up a hand as the orcs move ever closer, _wait, wait._ One of the orcs pauses and seems to sniff the air and Dwalin drops his hand. 

_“Baruk Khazâd!”_ Glóin shouts, and the other dwarves take up the call as they charge. _“Khazâd ai-mênu!”_

Glóin chooses his target, an orc with protruding fangs and a breastplate studded with jagged spikes, and surges forward. An arrow takes the beast in the neck before he can so much as reach it. Three others go down just as swiftly and Glóin feels a moment of grudging respect before everything is the clash of axes and the spray of dark blood.

At some point during the melee, Legolas abandons his sniper’s perch. Glóin catches a glimpse of him fighting back to back with Gimli, their blades flashing in the last of the fading sunlight. The new guards do Erebor proud and by the time full dusk has fallen, so has every orc. Glóin beams with pride, but before he can give it voice, before he can begin to teach the younger dwarves the pattern for a victory braid, he feels the ground shudder beneath his feet.

As one, Gimli and Legolas turn to the east and Glóin follows their gaze. A troll emerges from behind the tree line, an uprooted sapling in its hand like a club. From the collar around its neck, Glóin can tell that it is not like the foolish band of trolls the company encountered on their quest to reclaim Erebor, but rather a captive, tortured and trained by the forces of the Dark Lord. It rushes the party with a berserker’s rage.

Legolas gives Gimli a conspirator’s smile and Glóin sees Gimli lower his axe before the elf even makes the sign, hand flat, palm up. The troll charges directly toward the two and for a moment Glóin thinks his son’s death is upon him, then the elf steps on the flat of Gimli’s blade and Gimli wrenches his axe upward. Legolas arcs over the troll’s head, executes a swift turn midair, and shoots two arrows directly into the creature’s hindbrain. The troll collapses forward like a puppet with its strings cut. Legolas lands lightly on his feet.

The dwarves stare. As the moment stretches, the sharp smile on Legolas’ face begins to fall away. Gimli’s eyes take on a shine of defiance. 

Dwalin steps forward slowly. “That was a fine maneuver, lads,” he says, putting one hand on Gimli’s shoulder and the other on Legolas’ forearm. “Very fine.”

The other dwarves nod fervently. Dwalin has been the benchmark for dwarven battle prowess for nigh on 200 years now, has trained hundreds of soldiers with an iron hand, and to earn such praise from him is as highly prized as a commendation from the king.

“You do me proud,” Glóin says roughly, and he does not look at Gimli alone when he says it. Their synchrony from start to finish was a thing of beauty. Glóin thinks Thorin Oakenshield himself might have been moved upon seeing such skill. He motions for Legolas to kneel in front of him.

“Take note of the pattern, lads,” Glóin says quietly as he weaves a victory braid into Legolas’ golden hair.


End file.
